ll," he said, in a loud and
almost menacing voice, "if there is any chance of a verdict."

The jury, looking weary, harassed and very hot, once more disappeared,
the Judge left the bench, and the murmuring crowd settled down to
another period of waiting.

To Dion it seemed that a great tragedy was impending. Already Mrs.
Clarke had received a blow. The fact that the jury had publicly
announced their disagreement would be given out to all the world by the
newspapers, and must surely go against Mrs. Clarke even if she got a
verdict ultimately.

"Do you think there is any chance still?" he said to Mrs. Chetwinde.

"Oh, yes. As I told you, Cynthia always manages to get what she wants."

"I shouldn't think she can ever have wanted anything so much as she
wants the right verdict to-day."

"I don't know that," Mrs. Chetwinde replied, with a rather disconcerting
dryness.

She was using her fan slowly and monotonously, as if, perhaps, she were
trying to make her mind calm by the repetition of a physical act.

"I'm sorry the foreman said they couldn't agree," Dion said, almost in
a whisper. "Even if the verdict is for Mrs. Clarke, I'm afraid that will
go against her."

"If she wins she wins, and it's all right. Cynthia's not the sort of
woman who cares much what the world thinks. The only thing that really
matters is what the world does; and if she gets the verdict the world
won't do anything--except laugh at Beadon Clarke."

A loud buzz of conversation rose from the court. Presently the light
began to fade, and the buzz faded with it; then some lights were turned
on, and there was a crescendo of voices. It was possible to see more
clearly the multitude of faces, all of them hot, nearly all of them
excited and expressive. A great many people were standing, packed
closely together and looking obstinate in their determined curiosity.
Most of them were either staring at, or were trying to stare at Mrs.
Clarke, who was now talking to her solicitor. Esme Darlington was
eating a meat lozenge and frowning, evidently discomposed by the jury's
dilemma. Lady Ermyntrude Clarke had lifted her veil and was whispering
eagerly to her son, bending her head, and emphasizing her remarks with
excited gestures which seemed to suggest the energy of one already
uplifted by triumph. Beadon Clarke listened with the passivity of a man
encompassed by melancholy, and sunk deep in the abyss of shame.
Aristide Dumeny was reading a letter which he